


Another (Moult) Bites the Dust

by Charity_Angel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Gen, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Then fluff, Vague descriptions of torture, Wing Grooming, all off screen, but not pretty, can be read as either friendship or romatic, early biblical times, violent at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charity_Angel/pseuds/Charity_Angel
Summary: In which Crawly experiences his second moult and gets some TLC.





	Another (Moult) Bites the Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Firsts and Foremosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885246) by [Kedreeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva). 

> I couldn't resist the Queen-related title, sorry.
> 
> Footnotes are hoverable of you can, and linked at the bottom if you can't.
> 
> READ THE TAGS. There is quite a lot going on at the beginning here, even if it's all off-screen. Nothing is described vividly (because Crawly doesn't want to think too hard about it), but if you think it's not for you then skip to --- and after that it's just the panic attack and nightmares but none contain actual flashbacks.

Crawly knew before it even started, the second time. It began with an itching between his shoulders and a dip in his ability to perform miracles, and the mere thought of what was coming sent shivers down his spine. His gut roiled with nausea, which was a thoroughly unpleasant sensation that he really could do without, thank you very much.

At least he had some advance warning, which was something to be thankful for. Last time he had had no idea at all, and had been quite spectacularly vulnerable. And at least this time he had an angel who owed him a favour[1], and was nice enough that he wouldn' say no if Crawly asked[2].

The humans had spread out somewhat over the two centuries they had spent on Earth. Most had stayed close to where Adam and Eve had settled and raised their family, but the humans were such a terribly curious lot, and they just kept exploring. That meant that Crawly[3] covered a lot of ground these days, keeping up with the requisite temptations. He was a long way from the ærie he had made a century ago and, even as the demon flew, it would take a while for him to get back. Longer if he was intent on finding Aziraphale first.

And, because the world hated him, Crawly would have to complete this latest mission, because this wasn't just some petty little temptation: no, this one was Hell-mandated, and one did not ignore a mandate from the boss if one wanted to continue living. This man, Alastair[4], was someone that someone downstairs wanted very badly, and had put Crawly on the task of ensuring that he made it to Hell.

Crawly was all for tempting the humans in general terms: it was fun teasing them and making them question the (sometimes ridiculous) rules that God and the goody goody angels were making them follow. Questioning was something that Crawly definitely believed in. Questions like just how little he needed to do to keep Hell off his back, but would also keep Heaven from pressuring Aziraphale. There was a delicate balance to be maintained to keep them both in their postings.

What he wasn't altogether keen on was outright corruption, which was what his latest orders consisted of; pushing this particular human to the point he could never be redeemed. It was all he could do not to curl up in a ball and weep every time Alastair slept. He hated this, persuading someone that it was absolutely fine to do whatever he wanted to, to anyone. Being curious about what the nice knives would do to his pretty sister's skin? What are fingernails for? How much blood does the human body contain? Why not find out?

It would be harder if the bastard wasn't so curious to begin with. One day he would be considered to be a scientist, although his methods would leave a lot to be desired. It was kind of fascinating, though, in a very nauseating way. Crawly could have spent his entire existence not knowing that the human body contained a hin[5] of blood, and a person could haemorrhage to death in less than a minute. And the current experiment was weirdly fascinating: Alastair was working out the speed at which flesh corrupted from an unclean wound. His father had a fever, red lines tracking along the major blood vessels in his legs, and a few days before it reached his heart and killed him[6].

\---

But Crawly was glad to see the back of this particular job: Alastair was well and truly Hell's after all the murder and torture, and if he didn't go now Crawly was going to end up as Alastair's next experiment and get himself possibly just a tiny bit dead. Also he wasn't going to be able to fly for much longer, and that was the fastest way to leave this mess behind him.

He set off for the ærie when Alastair fell asleep, a short time after nightfall, walking far enough that the rustle of wings wouldn't be heard. The transformation into his somewhat ungainly bird form was harder than usual, and he had to spend a lot longer than he would have liked preening out new shed feathers before he could set off: he'd dropped another pair of secondaries since he'd last been able to sort himself out, and the coverts were getting unruly too, but not yet dropping. Thank goodness, really, because he didn't want to leave a pile of demonic feathers lying around this sick, twisted bastard. Even Crawly didn't know what kind of power might be in his shed feathers[7] \- that was why he kept them in the ærie. Only Aziraphale knew about them[8] and was as wary about their feathers being used by humans (or their brethren) as Crawly was himself.

Huffing in irritation, Crawly grasped the pinions in his bill[9] and started his lumbering take-off. He probably should have done this the proper, "angelic"; way, but he'd gotten used to travelling by more Earthly means over the last couple of centuries that it honestly hadn't occurred to him until the sun was peeking over the horizon, by which time and he was well on his way and fairly committed to his chosen method.[10]

The trouble with corporations when one's magic was draining was that something strenuous, like flight, was bloody exhausting. But he had to keep going, had to make it back to the ærie, to safety, to…

.oOo.

He was plummeting, his wings flailing at the air but not catching the currents. He was falling, and that word alone was enough to stop him breathing, make his heart stop beating. Not again; he couldn't do this again, he couldn't…

Except… he wasn't? There was a flurry of white feathers and a secure hold around his somewhat cumbersome body.

"My dear boy, whatever _were_ you thinking?" Aziraphale asked, barely stirring the air as he glided cautiously towards the ground. "Blast it, flying with a corporation is not practical[11]; I think I understand this shape of yours better now. I do so miss flight."

His angel set him down, which would have been much more dignified had his legs taken his weight. Instead he flopped in an ungainly heap on the sand.

"Crawly, whatever's the matter?" Aziraphale cried, falling to his knees

Crawly took a deep, gasping breath, coughed out a load of sand, and took another breath, and another.

Aziraphale rearranged himself so that he was sat down beside Crawly.

"My dear, that is far too fast, even for whatever kind of bird you are. May I pick you up?"

Crawly managed to give a half-hearted rustle of his covert feathers. Aziraphale smoothed them back down as he lifted Crawly and arranged him on his lap, facing out.

"In and out, my dear," Aziraphale said soothingly, trailing his fingers along Crawly's spine. "In and out, nice and slow."

The words and the rhythm of the petting fingers were very helpful; they gave Crawly things to focus on. That and the fact that he was very blatantly _not_ falling[12] any more enabled him to get his breathing under control, although he had absolutely no idea how long it had taken for him to do so.

As Crawly settled and curled his neck round to look at Aziraphale, the angel swept his hands over the splayed wings.

"Oh dear, it's worse than I thought. However did you manage to stay aloft for so long with so many missing flight feathers?" Another came away on each side at his fairly gentle ministrations.

Crawly sighed and flopped his head back down, along his back.

"Don't look at me like that," Aziraphale admonished him[13]. "Let's get you back to your proper shape before you aren't able to any more, and then we'll walk the rest of the way."

That took the rest of the day, with Aziraphale offering him water and bits of bread occasionally as both energy and encouragement. He was even good enough to arc one of his ridiculous, too-bright wings over Crawly to keep the worst of the sun's heat off of him. As much as he enjoyed the heat, he couldn't take that much. But eventually he managed to get himself into his familiar human form, although his wings refused to fold away nicely and he tucked them up against his back instead.

"Come along, Crawly," Aziraphale said, gathering the discarded feathers and stashing them in his bag. "Let's get you home."

And Crawly's angel picked him up, set him on his feet, and pulled Crawly's arm over his shoulders.[14] Together, they set off in the direction of the ærie.

.oOo.

It took them two days, with Crawly having to take naps, and Aziraphale having to forage for more food at the settlements. He couldn't take Crawly into the villages because of his rather obvious wings[15] but, each time he left Crawly felt uneasy and exposed. He was shedding flight feathers faster than ever, the pin feathers starting to come in around the wrist and making him itchier than ever. And now he couldn't do anything about it, because even the tiniest bit of damage to the new plumage and he might not fly for the next century or so.

He was utterly exhausted by the time they got to the ærie. Aziraphale was the one to miracle the staircase this time, so that Crawly could climb into his own hideout. And by the time he had actually ascended, he was so tired he flopped bonelessly onto the pile of furs, his wings sprawling.

Aziraphale tutted. "Dear boy, have a care. You'll damage your new feathers and end up lop-sided, like me[16]."

Crawly turned his head just enough that he could peer out of one eye.

"You flew jusssst fine," he mumbled, not really awake enough to hold back the sibilant ess.

"You're kind to say so[17]," Aziraphale said. "Sleep now, Crawly. We are safe here."

Crawly reached out a hand to Aziraphale. "Protect me?"

A smile creased the corners of Aziraphale's eyes. "Of course."

.oOo.

The next few days passed in a bit of a blur. Being safe, Crawly was able to rest as much as his body demanded. He dozed a lot, and woke to eat every now and then to keep his strength up. Aziraphale seemed to have an oddly never-ending supply of bread and dried meat in his bag[18] and Crawly was ravenous all the time. Stupid corporation, stupid Earth-bound wings burning up energy he didn't have. But the best thing about it was the sheer number of times he woke to find himself draped over Aziraphale, and the angel not only didn't seem to mind his apparently natural clinginess, but Crawly was sure that Aziraphale was holding him back. More than once, he had felt Aziraphale's hands not just brushing through his ruined wings, removing feathers as they loosened and being careful of the pin feathers that were coming in, but sometimes just stroking between his wings, or through his hair.[19] More than once he had woken from a nightmare about Alastair and his experiments to find that Aziraphale was holding him tightly, cocooning them both in white feathers and trilling in soft Enochian, words that Crawly had once pretended not to remember[20] but right now was just grateful to hear.

It had been a few years since they had last seen each other, and in the times where Crawly was sleepy but not actually asleep Aziraphale told him stories of the people he had met, the children he had been able to watch grow in the various settlements and the games they played with each other.[21] About the things he had discovered in the world.

It was a lot nicer, this way, Crawly thought, than his last experience of moult had been. Just him and his angel, in the ærie that smelled of them both, on a bed lined with both of their feathers. He was so glad that Aziraphale had found him, caught him, protected him. 

* * *

[1] It was a favour Crawly had never intended on collecting on, unlike the deal he had made with Ligur in order to save Aziraphale's life at the time. But he was going to be vulnerable and his lifestyle didn't endear him to most of the inhabitants of the Earth. Or Heaven. Or Hell, come to that. The demons tolerated him because he worked (reasonably) hard at corrupting the human. And even that was only because he had managed to find a way into Eden, unlike them. That hadn't made him particularly popular either, because it had just highlighted everyone else's failures when he slithered under the gate and draped himself around Eve's neck, and swung from the forbidden tree.

[2] Also, if Aziraphale was watching him, he wasn't spreading any more of his pesky little blessings and undoing Crawly's hard work.

[3] And, by extension, Aziraphale.

[4] A name that might be familiar to fans of Supernatural. Mostly because the author has borrowed him shamelessly for the purposes of Drama.

[5] Which according to the internet is an actual biblical measurement, and the author suspects that it is not a coincidental measure (and therefore probably not known at the point this story is set).

[6] Assuming that some of the infection didn't break off and take the fast route to the heart. Which honestly would be the kinder thing for poor old daddy.

[7] But if there was some, Alastair was the kind of person who would find out what it was and exploit it out of interest.

[8] And had contributed his own to the stash.

[9] He had never managed to shift the damnable webbing between what he would very much like to be talons.

[10] Also, he wasn't altogether sure how angelic flight worked with a corporation. He didn't think his body would stand up to the forces of his natural flight and he didn't want to explain to his bosses how he had managed to discorporate himself. Particularly by doing something that the rest of the Fallen couldn't any more.

[11] See, even Aziraphale thought it wasn't a good idea. Crawly was right after all.

[12] With or without the capital F

[13] Somewhat fondly, Crawly <strike>hoped</strike> thought.

[14] Somewhat difficult to do this the other way around, what with two different sets of shoulders getting in the way of each other.

[15] His eyes were accepted without question as a quirk of God's creation, but wings were pushing it a little too far. Especially black ones – Aziraphale would be readily recognised as an angel and treated accordingly, but Crawly would not.

[16] During his first moult*, Aziraphale had damaged one of his incoming primary feathers beyond repair, forcing Crawly to remove it. It had been an unpleasant experience all round and Crawly was very glad that Aziraphale had been unconscious enough not to remember the pain.

* See [Of Firsts and Foremosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885246) by Kedreeva.

[17] He really hadn’t – flying with a corporation was a risk as it was, but flying with uneven wings and a corporation? They were both lucky to be alive. But Crawly hadn’t noticed in his exhaustion and panic, and Aziraphale saw no reason to enlighten him.

[18] He would discover later that the bag was bigger on the inside* and Aziraphale had been stocking up as much as the humans’ generosity would allow at every occasion.

* A minor miracle that Aziraphale would later transfer to his pockets, and would one day inspire the TARDIS, and the Hermione Granger's beaded bag. Best not to ask how Verity Lambert and JK Rowling found out.

[19] He really hoped that he hadn't just dreamed it, although he couldn't imagine ever being brave enough to ask.

[20] He didn't remember his life in Heaven very well, or even what his name had been Before, but the language had stuck with him.

[21] The stories of the children were ones Crawly particularly enjoyed: he had always liked children, and even with Alastair he had tried to point him in the direction of older people. Those who had already reproduced were preferable. Children, he had insisted, were precious and had to be protected so that they could grow and have children of their own.*

* He justified this to himself by the logic that the more children born, the more souls there would be up for grabs. Even Crawly knew this wasn't the whole truth, but it was a truth that would be acceptable to Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kedreeva for allowing me to run with this plot bunny (and totally not enabling me _at all_). Because I needed another fandom to write in.


End file.
